Night Hoops (21 page)

Garfield's coach called time-out. It was so loud it was hard to hear anything O'Leary said. But what did it matter? We all knew what we had to do. Shut them down; score fast and often.

After the time out, Garfield went into a weave offense, trying to run us ragged and run time off the clock. There's no shot clock in Washington high school basketball, so you can stall as long as you want, and if the weave works you get a high-percentage shot.

But it only works if the defense goes to sleep. That possession was a war of wills. Who would crack first? Would it be one of us, going for the steal when it wasn't there and giving up the back-door lay-in? Or would it be one of them, a bad pass or a turnover on the dribble?

They had quickness, and all five of them could handle the ball. Ten seconds went off the clock. Twenty. Thirty. Then came the break. A bounce pass came low, hitting the guy I was guarding in the knee. In a flash I was down on the floor after it. The Garfield guy leaned over to tie me up, but before he could, I rolled the ball to McShane. Carver had broken free; McShane baseballed a pass the length of the court. Too high and too far—but Darren soared to catch it and in one motion put up a shot before tumbling out-of-bounds.

The shot was too hard. A Garfield guy was positioned for the rebound, but somehow it was Trent's hand that rose above his to tip the miss back up. The ball hung on the rim for an excruciating second. Two thousand people held their breath. And then it dropped in, and the place exploded. Again. The lead was only nine.

Right then we relaxed. It was only for a second, but we paid for it. Nobody had gotten back on defense. The in-bound went the length of the court to a streaking Garfield guard. He caught it, laid the ball up and in, and was fouled. When the free throw rattled in, their lead was twelve.

From that point on we were playing against the clock as much as we were playing against Garfield. They scored and then, but nothing they did—passing, shooting, rebounding—was crisp. They short-armed their shots and had rubbery knees on defense.

Everybody contributed. McShane rebounded like a demon. Luke made a beautiful cross on a drive up the gut and spun in a reverse lay-in. Carver swished a fifteen-footer with a hand in his face. I knocked down a sweeping hook from the right of the key. With two minutes and ten seconds left we pulled within five.

"
De-fense! De-fense! De-fense!
"

The crowd was up on its feet, exhorting us. I could feel another turnover coming. I could just feel it. Then, out of nowhere, their point guard rose and made a three-pointer from the corner even though I had my hand right in his face, and I mean right in his face. The lead jumped back to eight.

I rushed down court, determined to get the hoop back right away. But I was in too much of a hurry. I dribbled the ball off my knee, Garfield, picked it up, and they were off. As I watched that fast break develop, my heart stopped. Another bucket and they'd be up by ten and we'd be out of time.

I don't know how Trent got back, and I'm not sure his feet were really set. But he took the Garfield guy's knee in the chest, toppled backwards, and the ref bought it. "Offensive!" he shouted, and he pointed dramatically that the ball was to go our way.

At our end we worked the ball to Luke. His jumper was partially deflected. The rebound was one of those weird things that comes straight down. A pack of guys went for it, but the ball came out in McShane's possession. No hesitation—he went right back up with it and banked in a four-foot shot. We were down six with just over a minute left.

We pressed—no choice. But Garfield's point guard busted across the center line with a three-on-two fast break. He should have taken it to the basket, but he pulled it back to run the clock. The ball went down to the left corner. Trent and Luke double-teamed, arms waving. The guy turned into Trent, and Trent yanked the ball out of his hands, just took it from him. I was off, and the pass was on the money. A Garfield guy planted himself at the top of the key. I wrapped the ball behind my back and blew by him. A simple lay-in, just like a million others I'd made. I laid the ball softly against the backboard and it settled into the net. Four down with fifty-three seconds left.

They brought the ball in before we could set up any kind of a press. And once they crossed the time-line they went into the four corners, spreading the court and making it impossible to double-team. Pass and cut, pass and cut, pass and cut. The seconds ticked away. When to foul? When to foul? I was about to hack at my guy when a pass slipped through the hands of their forward. Carver pounced on it, hit me, and we were off again. This time two guys were back. I drove into the lane, then skipped a pass to Carver. He was fifteen feet out and he stroked it, a beautiful jumper that was perfect. Down two with twenty seconds left.

O'Leary called time-out. "Go for a quick steal, but foul when it gets under fifteen. And remember—we have no more time-outs!"

The horn sounded. We turned and took the court. I was so tense I didn't hear the crowd, though they must have been screaming their lungs out. I couldn't swallow; there was no saliva in my mouth. I looked at Darren, at Luke, at McShane. They were as tight as I was. Then I looked at Trent. His eyes were glowing, that little crooked smile on his lips. All of a sudden my nervousness was gone. This was it—what I'd dreamed about for years. I might as well enjoy it.

We tried to deny the in-bound pass, but their center came back to get it. He returned the ball to the point guard, then set a solid screen as the guard worked the ball across the time line. With every dribble, a precious second ticked away.

Was it time to foul or was it still too early? I wanted to look at the clock, but I was afraid to take my eyes off my guy. Another dribble ... another. I had to foul ... I had to! But my guy got rid of the ball a fraction of a second before I could hack him. Right then our crowd picked up the clock.
Ten
... Luke was all over his guy. Still no call.
Nine ... A
pass toward the top of the key.
Eight ... Seven....
Another pass, this time cross-court. Time seemed to stop as the ball floated in the air. If it reached the Garfield guy deep in the corner, it was all over. We'd be out of time. I saw Darren dive, his fingertips stretching, stretching toward the ball, his body parallel to the ground. For an instant everything stopped—and then his hand was on the ball, tapping it away from the Garfield guy and toward me, and the world went from slow-motion to fast forward. In a flash I pounced on the ball, and broke for our hoop. I could hear the crowd counting down the seconds....
Five ... four...

The guy guarding me had good position; I couldn't risk a charge, couldn't shoot over him. I looked left; Luke was covered. On the right I spotted Trent, but two Garfield guys were running stride-for-stride with him. I knew Darren was lying in a heap at the other end of the court. There was only one player left.

I penetrated the key while the crowd roared
Two,
then spun and hit McShane as he spotted up just outside the three-point arc. It was his first three-point shot of the season. He released the ball as the crowd roared
One.
The shot was ugly—no arc, no spin, a laser. It streaked on a line to the backboard, smacked hard off the glass, and rocketed down and through the net just as the horn sounded.

The whole place gasped. It was as if no one believed what they'd just seen—the shot was so improbable. There was no way it could go in, but it had. McShane raised his arms above his head, and a huge smile spread across his face. A second later Luke tackled him, and everybody else piled on, until we must have looked like some ugly sea creature with more arms and legs than anyone could count.

Finally we stood, and arm-in-arm, danced our way off the court. From the stands poured down the most wonderful words in the world, wonderful because at least for that one moment they were true: "We're number one!"

Inside the locker room we hugged and high-fived, drummed on the benches and pounded on the metal lockers. We whooped and hollered as we showered, bouncing our excitement off the tile walls and floor.

You can't stay sky-high forever, though. The hot water changed to warm, then to cool. One by one guys turned off the water and headed back to the lockers.

As we dressed, guys broke into smaller groups. Still it was all the game—the drives to the hoop, the defensive stops, the baskets, the rebounds, McShane's incredible shot. Finally the talk wore down. Lockers banged closed; bags were zipped shut. Chang was the first one to leave, followed by Carver and Markey. "Great game!"..."See you Monday." ... "Later." One by one they left until it was just Trent and me.

"You in any big hurry?" he said.

I looked toward the door, thought about all the things that were outside it, all the things waiting for him and for me.

"No," I said. "Not really."

He shook his head. "Me neither."

So the two of us stayed where we were. A minute went by, then another, and another. It was pleasant just to sit, not saying anything.

Finally I stood. "Well, I guess we've got to go sometime, don't we?"

"Yeah. I guess we do."

We walked down the corridor. When we reached the door, I pushed it open. "Go ahead," I said.

He stepped outside and I followed.

The sun wasn't exactly out, but the sky wasn't all gray, either.

"Not a bad-looking day," I said.

"No," Trent answered, "not bad at all."